


blood of the covenant, water of the womb

by thundersnowstorm



Series: rhaenys of the north [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Sibling Bonding, rhaenys vs daddy issues and the concept of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersnowstorm/pseuds/thundersnowstorm
Summary: A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.The war in the south might be won, but stories of wildlings and rumors of mythical creatures bring the King and Queen in the North to the Wall. Rhaegar’s children meet at last.





	1. lupus in fabula - the wolf in the story

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back! This ended up being way longer than expected, but that's writing for ya. 
> 
> If you're new here, reading the first installment of the series isn't necessary, all you need to know is that Rhaenys Targaryen survived the Sack of King's Landing, married Robb and the North is an independent kingdom. (Although I do recommend reading the first part.)
> 
> This deals pretty heavily with R + L, unsurprisingly. I know people tend to have strong opinions on the matter, but I tried to go with what I think the characters would believe, given both the limited in-world information, and Westerosi understandings of sex/ consent/ power dynamics. The actual truth of the situation between Rhaegar and Lyanna is left ambiguous on purpose. If you’re interested, you can read some of my thoughts on the matter [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/178533295566/i-kinda-feel-like-people-who-blame-lyanna-for-what). 
> 
> Enjoy!

_i. lupus in fabula - the wolf in the story_

 

The king’s party was close enough to the Wall that in order to see the top, one had to crane their neck almost to the point of discomfort. The legendary structure was a monstrosity of ice, stone, and, according to myth, magic. The Wall marked the very furthest edge of Westeros, separating the Kingdom of the North from whatever lay beyond, both human and magical.

Rhaenys was not in the mood to gaze in awe upon such a structure. She would much rather bury her nose into her furs and concentrate on keeping her fingers and toes from freezing off.

She had thought she had grown accustomed to the North’s fierce cold, and the land had proven her wrong with a vengeance. Here, at the furthest north of the North, as winter was beginning to draw its frozen cloak over the land, the cold was not so much weather as it was a living thing. The wind had a way of slithering in through any crevice of clothing, biting at exposed flesh with poisoned fangs. Even just breathing it in could prove to be deadly, and any extremities left uncovered for too long turned black. Why any people had chosen to settle somewhere this cold was a mystery to her.

Not that Rhaenys could complain to any of the Northerners. They almost seemed to revel in this weather, talking with fondness about wintertime contests where men would jump into frozen rivers and see who could last the longest. She had made the mistake of complaining once. Dacey had laughed at her and made a comment about her thin Southron blood. Even Robb seemed amused by the number of layers she insisted on piling on every morning before stepping outside. So Rhaenys suffered in silence, her words turning as frosty as the air.

(She would not admit it to herself, but it was easier to be pointlessly angry at the weather than to focus on the reason for their visit to the Night’s Watch. Well, one of the reasons. The news coming from Castle Black was worrying, yes, speaking of an army of wildlings just beyond the Wall, and more, rumors too fantastical to be believed. But it was the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch that she could not allow herself to think on, not after Howland Reed’s revelations.)

But the Wall loomed ever closer, and with it, Jon Snow.

“The men are uneasy,” commented Robb in a low voice, edging his horse closer to hers. “The Umbers especially. The reports all seem to contradict each other, but the one thing they seem to agree on is that the Wall doesn’t seem to be the same barrier to the wildlings it once was.”

“We spend months fighting for an uneasy peace on the southern border and now the northern border comes under attack,” said Rhaenys with a sigh. “Would it be too much to ask for a year of peace? Six moons even. We still haven’t even finished neutralizing the Ironborn.”

“At least the eastern shore has been peaceful,” he tried. She decided not to remind him of the rumors coming from Essos regarding her aunt and, of all the unlikely things, dragons. “And Ser Rodrik reports that the wildling army was repelled. Even if they regroup, no King-Beyond-the-Wall has ever succeeded in taking the North.”

The wildlings had begun attacking Castle Black shortly after the new year, but the army assembled by Ser Rodrik from the mountain clans to take back Deepwood Motte had provided the Night’s Watch with much-needed reinforcements. But news from the Wall was scarce, and for all they knew, the wildlings had regrouped and attacked once again.

“It’s odd,” she mused. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for the wildlings to attack in spring or summer? Starting a war in early winter is just foolish.”

Robb shrugged. “The wildlings are a different sort of people. Mayhaps they thought it would give them some sort of advantage.”

Rhaenys couldn’t see what advantage there could be in trying to fight through waist-high snows, but then again, they could just be used to it in the lands Beyond-the-Wall. Old Nan swore that the snow there never melted, and though Rhaenys always took the woman’s words with a healthy dose of skepticism, it wasn’t as though she could attest otherwise.

“Mayhaps,” she agreed, “though something just doesn’t fit right.”

“We’ll get all the answers we need from Jon,” he said, and she winced. “Rhae – I know you don’t want to talk about him, but you’re going to meet him soon enough.”

“I know that!” she snapped, but her anger evaporated as quickly as it came. She sighed. “I’m sorry, but what am I supposed to say? Good morrow to you too Lord Commander, funny story, it turns out you’re my half-brother, and the man you thought was your half-brother is now your cousin. Now, shall we discuss those wildlings?”

“Aren’t you the one always telling me to be more politically tactful?” he said, and Rhaenys threw him a dirty look.

“Don’t act smart with me,” she said, putting on exaggerated airs, and he chuckled.

“It’s going to be alright, Rhae,” said Robb. She shrugged and didn’t reply. She had spent almost twenty years refusing to think on her father’s mistakes, and yet here they were now, ready to look her in the eyes.

The iron gates of Castle Black swung open slowly as they neared, creaking from rust and cold. Rhaenys tightened her fingers around the reins and urged her mare forward. Inside, the brothers of the Night’s Watch had gathered to greet them, each dressed head to toe in black furs and leathers. It made the less uniform garbs of those not in the Night’s Watch stand out. Ser Rodrik was there, standing with men who bore the colors of several different mountain clans, but it was the people in the back that caught her eye, a group of men and women in mismatched furs that bore no standard. They were wildlings, she realized with a jolt, and she exchanged a worried look with Robb as he came to the same realization.

Rhaenys pulled her mount to a standstill alongside Robb’s. A current of apprehension hung over the gathered people, like a storm waiting to break. Though the Night’s Watch was bound to no kings or queens, they bowed low as was custom, while the wildlings stood proudly straight-backed. Robb’s jaw was set in a tight line, but he shook his head minutely at a silently outraged Greatjon, as if to tell him to stand down.

Olyvar was quick in taking the reins of their horses and she dismounted as gracefully as she could. As she reassembled her cloak around her, a flash of dark hair darted through the corner of her vision.

“JON!” shrieked a voice, and a small figure threw herself at the bowing Lord Commander. He stumbled in surprise, barely keeping his footing.

“Arya!” snapped Robb, though there was really no heat to it. Jon Snow was laughing, swinging his youngest sister-cousin around in a hug. Beside them, the direwolves had barreled into their red-eyed sibling, yipping and pawing at each other in greeting. More than a few people shifted in apprehension at the sight, not that Rhaenys could blame them. A single direwolf was a fearsome enough sight, and now there were four in one place.

“I told you Arya wouldn’t listen to you,” she commented lightly.

“No one ever listens to me,” grumbled Robb, but he took in the scene with bright eyes that betrayed his inner delight.

Jon Snow lowered Arya to the ground, his cheeks coloring as he remembered his proprieties. He looked exactly like Eddard Stark, Rhaenys noted, with the same long face, dark hair, and solemn gray eyes. Lyanna Stark must have looked quite like her brother. A blessing, that must have been, or the late Lord Stark’s deception would have been uncovered. Slender white scars crisscrossed his eyes, the mark of some wild animal’s claws if she had to guess. He was Robb’s age, younger than her, but his were the eyes of a man who had seen war.

“Your Graces,” said Jon Snow, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Welcome to Castle Black.”

A wide grin took over Robb’s face and he drew Jon in for a tight hug. “It’s good to see you again, brother.”

An odd feeling curled in Rhaenys’s stomach and she turned away. She caught Arya’s eyes and motioned her over to her side. The black brothers performed a noble and necessary duty in protecting the continent, but many of them were also criminals and she did not trust them so near to Arya.

Robb broke the embrace with reluctance, both him and Jon wiping subtle tears away.

“Jon, I should introduce you to my wife, Queen Rhaenys” said Robb, placing a hand on the small of her back.

“A pleasure, your grace,” said Jon Snow, bowing, and Rhaenys tried to make her smile seem less pained.

“Likewise, Lord Snow.” Her tone came out frostier than intended.

A horse skidded to a stop near them, sending up a spray of slush that splattered the hem of Rhaenys’s cloak. Arya giggled.

“Jon!” exclaimed Bran, his legs still buckled in place on his saddle.

Jon Snow grabbed Bran’s hand in his own, smiling broadly. “It’s good to see you awake, Bran,” he said.

“Keep a tighter hold on Dancer, Bran,” advised Robb, waving Hodor over to help Bran dismount.

“I can ride now,” Bran told Jon excitedly. “Better than ever before. Dancer doesn’t need me to use my legs, she responds to my voice, do you want to see?”

“Later,” said Robb. “There is much we need to discuss with the Night’s Watch first.”

“I want to show Jon how I’ve been practicing with Needle,” insisted Arya.

“Later,” he repeated. “One of the black brothers will show you to your rooms in the King’s Tower for now. You can see Jon again for supper.”

Arya grumbled, but assented. Rhaenys still was not sure how Bran and Arya had convinced Robb to tag along to the Wall, especially not when it was so dangerous, but they were some of the few people where his authority was useless. With Eddard and Catelyn Stark dead, Robb was the closest thing the younger Starks had to a parent, something she knew weighed heavily on him. He was a brother to them, not a father, but life had given them all little choice in the roles they had taken.

Jon Snow motioned one of the men near him forward, introducing him as Eddison Tollett.

“Everyone calls me Dolorous Edd,” said the man with a melancholy sigh. He added on a hasty “your grace” after a pause. “Come along then, little prince, princess, I’ll show you to your rooms. I would much appreciate it if you didn’t let those wolves take a bite out me though, I rather like having all my fingers. Now, why anyone would want a direwolf as a pet is beyond me…”

Rhaenys watched them disappear into the King’s Tower, Nymeria and Summer following them, and tried not to feel so on edge.

“Come, let’s get out of this wind,” said Robb. “We can talk more elsewhere, there is much to discuss.” Rhaenys could not agree more. It was becoming difficult to remember what the tip of her nose felt like.

“There is hot mulled wine waiting in my quarters,” said Jon, and after exchanging a quick word with the rest of the gathered lords, they followed him inside, Rhaenys trailing a step behind behind Robb and Jon. The white direwolf – Ghost, if she recalled the name correctly – trotted beside his master, while Grey Wind kept close to her.

“Sansa and Rickon send their love,” Rhaenys heard Robb tell Jon. “I think I have some letters from them somewhere – ah, here they are. Maester Luwin wrote for Rickon, but that was likely for the best.”

“Sansa wrote to me?” said Jon, surprise coloring his voice.

Robb was quiet for a moment. “She is much changed since returning north. In truth, we have all changed.”

“I heard about Lady Catelyn,” said Jon, his voice hushed. “I am sorry. She loved you all very dearly.” He stopped at a door near the top of the tower, pushing it open. Inside, the heat from the fireplace hit them like a wave. Rhaenys had never quite appreciated fire this much.

“We buried Father in the crypts in Winterfell,” said Robb. “I know you have many duties as Lord Commander, but if you ever have the chance to come home, well, you are more than welcome to visit him.” Rhaenys looked away, feeling very much like an intruder in a private moment.

Jon swallowed audibly. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse.

Robb took a deep breath. “Jon –” he began, but Rhaenys shook her head sharply at him. Not now, not when they had so many other things that needed discussing.

“How about some of that mulled wine?” he said instead.

…

“The Others?” Rhaenys tried not to laugh. “Lord Snow, I don’t think this is the right time for japing.”

“I do not jape,” said Jon, and there was no trace of humor on his face. “I speak truly, the Others roam beyond the Wall and they are coming for us all.”

The fire crackled and spat swirling embers into the room, casting shifting shadows that made Rhaenys feel as though she were sitting with her cousins, listening to them tell scary stories of monsters and magic. But no matter how gloomy the room, it could not make her take Jon’s claim seriously.

“The Others are a myth,” she said. Of all the things Jon Snow could have inherited from their father, she had not expected this type of madness and fondness for tall tales. “Told to misbehaving children to scare them into listening to their parents.”

Robb shifted, his brow furrowed in thought. “The Others existed once, it’s true. Brandon the Breaker defeated the Night’s King many thousands of years ago. Much of Westeros has forgotten, but the North never did. But Jon, what you’re saying –”

“It sounds impossible, I know.” Jon scrubbed a hand across his face. “But it is a different world up here, one where the dead do not stay dead. The Others are real, Robb, and they will kill us all.”

“You’ve seen them then?”

Jon shook his head. “Only their wights. Corpses of men they reanimate to do their bidding. Few who have seen the Others have lived to tell the tale. My friend Sam scarcely survived with his life. Arrows bounce off their skin, the best castle-forged steel shatters upon contact. Those among the Watch and the free folk who have seen them and lived describe beings more terrifying than any tale Old Nan could ever think up.”

“Gods above,” breathed Robb. His eyes closed briefly.

Rhaenys’s mouth fell open. “You cannot be saying you believe him, Robb,” she said, incredulous. “These are tales of magic, of impossible things. There is a logical explanation for this somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

“With all due respect, your grace, your family once rode dragons.” The urge to laugh hysterically bubbled up within her once more. “Direwolves roam south of the Wall, and there have been strange sightings reported from all corners of Westeros.” Grey Wind, lying at Robb’s feet, huffed in his sleep as if agreeing.

“Magic is dead,” she replied stubbornly. “It existed once, in the times of our ancestors, but it died long ago.”

“Don’t they say your aunt hatched dragons in Essos?” Robb reminded her. “If the dragons and direwolves are returning, it does make sense that creatures such as the Others might too.”

“Robb, this is all absurd. Call me a skeptic, but I simply cannot accept the existence of the Others on the word of a single man and a few wildlings.”

“Free folk.”

“Sorry?”

“They call themselves the free folk, not wildlings,” said Jon.

“The free folk,” she conceded. If they were to negotiate with these people, she might as well avoid trying to directly antagonize them. “But my point stands.”

“I’m not saying I believe it all,” said Robb. “But I trust Jon. And the North owes it to the Night’s Watch to at the very least determine what is going on beyond the Wall.”

Rhaenys pursed her lips. “That’s fair.” As ridiculous as the claims sounded, Jon Snow did not have the demeanor of a mad man, and if Robb trusted him, she had to at the very least trust Robb. Mayhaps there was some truth in his words, mayhaps she was simply too southron to understand, but it went against everything that Rhaenys believed to accept the existence of creatures like the Others. Dragons had existed once, it was true, but they had left behind skeletons and scorch marks. All the Others had left behind was the cold winter wind and stories whispered from parent to child.

“We can speak to the rest of the Night’s Watch and to the wild – the free folk,” said Robb. His mind was made up, and nothing Rhaenys said could change it, but there was no harm in asking around. “And if they’re real, well, we will have far bigger issues than dealing with the free folk.”

“The free folk cannot remain Beyond-the-Wall,” said Jon, his grey eyes intense. “They do not have a prayer of a chance of holding out against the Others. If we do nothing, they are nothing more than wights in the making.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose. “Aye, but if the free folk are allowed past the Wall, my lords will surely string me up by my feet.”

“The Gift belongs to the Night’s Watch, not the North,” Jon reminded him.

“And how well do you think these free folk will respect boundaries drawn arbitrarily on a map?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Rhaenys told him. “We haven’t even spoken to them yet. You have at least two days before your lords begin plotting treason.”

Jon choked on a sip of wine, but Robb just laughed. “You always make me feel so much better, love,” he said drily. “Maybe I should let you be the one to tell the Greatjon there might be free folk near his lands soon.”

“Do that, and I’ll sic Arya on you,” she said, deadpan, and even serious, brooding Jon Snow laughed.

Robb clapped Jon’s shoulder in the easy, intimate way of brothers, and then Jon said something that must have been an inside joke because Robb laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear away. Rhaenys watched them, the way their respective titles and positions seemed to fall away in an instant to reveal two young men as normal as any others.

It was Jon Snow she found herself watching most often, searching those dark, Northern features for even a hint of her father. Rhaegar Targaryen was a ghost, his face lost among the drifting mists of her mind, but perhaps that there was his laugh, that the quirk in his eyebrows, those his haunted eyes. Or maybe those were all Lyanna Stark’s, or even simply just Jon Snow himself.

His nose, she decided, was Rhaegar’s. It was the only feature she and him seemed to share, that aristocratic angle that reminded her of portraits of her ancestors in books. Otherwise, they could be strangers, she and him, the Dornish princess and the Northern bastard.

Maybe it was best that Rhaegar left so little in either of them. Maybe it was best that the memory of their father faded from this world, his mistakes and his victories alike.

But with proof of her father’s folly sitting before her, it was hard to forget.

“It’s getting late,” said Jon, and Ghost yawned, as if in agreement. “I’m sure you and Queen Rhaenys would like to get some rest after so long on the road.”

Rhaenys could feel herself beginning to flag, the idea of a featherbed calling to her, but then Robb met her eyes and she swallowed.

“We should –”

“Tomorrow,” she told him, but Jon did not miss their half-spoken exchange.

“What is it?” he asked, confused.

“It’s late, we can just talk tomorrow,” said Robb, but he had always been terrible at hiding things.

“Is something wrong? Is someone ill?”

Robb shook his head. “Nothing of the sort, but – well are you sure you wouldn’t rather just speak tomorrow?”

“What is it, Robb?” repeated Jon, voice low.

Robb swallowed. “It’s about your mother.” Rhaenys closed her eyes and sucked in a steadying breath.

Jon jerked back involuntarily. “You know who she is.” It was not a question.

“We stopped at Greywater Watch when we were returning north,” explained Robb. “We spoke to Howland Reed. I - Jon, are you sure you wouldn’t rather speak of this tomorrow morning? This is not something you can unlearn.”

“If my mother is dead, I’d rather just hear about it now,” he said tonelessly.

Robb nodded, hesitant. “She died. In childbirth.” A vein jumped in Jon’s neck, but he just pursed his lips.

“Who was she then? Some camp follower?” Any levity that had once existed in this room had drained away, leaving only dust and tension.

“Lyanna Stark. Your mother was Lyanna Stark.”

Rhaenys spoke at last. “And your father was Rhaegar Targaryen. My father. Our father.”

Jon went even more still. He could have been carved from the same stone as the statues in the Winterfell crypts “You must be mistaken. Eddard Stark was my father, Robb –”

“He had to claim you to protect you from Robert Baratheon,” said Robb quietly. “You know what happened to Aegon Targaryen, Father must have believed this was the only way. He was still your father though, in all ways except for one, just as I am your brother. This doesn’t change any of it.”

“How does it not change everything?” spat Jon, stalking over to the window, his back to them. “My father is not my father, my real father is a raper and a kidnapper, and my mother has been dead for eight-and-ten years. The only thing that has not changed is that I am still a bastard, so at least I have that.”

“For what it’s worth, Howland Reed said he did not think your mother was taken against her will,” said Rhaenys quietly. “Our father was arrogant and a fool, and he took advantage of the childish affections of a sheltered girl, but he was no raper.”

Jon’s laugh was as harsh as the winter wind. “Thank you for the reassuring words, your grace. My father may have plunged the realm into war and inadvertently caused the deaths of thousands, but at least he was no raper.” Ghost was on his feet, Rhaenys realized, hackles raised and growling softly. Grey Wind stood between her and the other direwolf, but her neck prickled in fear.

“How you were born does not matter,” said Robb, walking over to him. He laid a reassuring hand on Jon’s shoulders, but was coldly rebuffed. “Eddard Stark raised you to be the man you are today, it was he who was truly your father. You are still a Stark, no matter what.”

“No Robb, I am a Snow.” Jon dragged a hand down his face. “Just go Robb, please.”

Robb looked as though he wanted to protest, but Ghost seemed ready to jump at the slightest provocation. Rhaenys took Robb’s hand, pulling him toward the door.

Outside, the air was even more bitterly cold than before, but Rhaenys hardly felt it.

“Well that went terribly.” Not for the first time, she cursed her father for leaving her to deal with his mistakes.

Robb sank to his knees in the powdery snow and buried his face into Grey Wind’s fur. His shoulders slumped, the energy drained from his body.

“Robb?” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We ought to go find our chambers. Arya and Bran are likely getting hungry.

He leaned back on his heels, hands still buried in Grey Wind’s fur. “I’ve never seen Jon look like that,” he said quietly. “Look so – so angry, so broken. Was it a mistake to tell him? He would have been happier that way.”

“The most important truths are always the most painful ones.” Rhaenys ran her fingers through some of Robb’s more unruly curls. “Jon Snow needs time, that’s all. He is still your brother, this won’t change it.”

Robb stood, brushing the snow and dirt from his knees. “He's your brother too.”

She shook her head. “Blood isn’t everything.”

…

Arya did not take the news that Jon would not be joining them for supper well.

“I haven’t seen him in years and he decides to stay alone in his room? He’s being stupid, and he needs to be told so,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“He needs space, Arya,” Robb told her. “He got some difficult news and we need to respect his wishes.”

“What kind of bad news?” asked Bran. “If he’s feeling sad, wouldn’t having his family around make it better?”

“It’s more complicated than that, Bran,” Rhaenys said softly. “Eat up, both of you, your food is getting cold.”

Arya pushed her plate away. “I won’t eat if Jon isn’t here with us.”

Robb sighed. “Arya –”

“Besides, saying something is complicated is an excuse that adults use when they don’t want to tell the truth.”

Robb exchanged a look with Rhaenys. “It’s about Jon’s mother,” he said at last.

Arya sat up straighter, grey eyes gone wide. “His mother? Who was she? Is she dead?”

“It is Jon’s story to tell, not ours,” Rhaenys said.

“Well he’ll tell me, I’m his favorite sister,” declared Arya, pushing her plate aside and slipping off the chair with the wobbly legs.

“Arya, get back to your seat, you haven’t finished your supper,” Robb said, but the tired lines by his eyes betrayed his attempt at authority.

“Father would let me go help Jon feel better,” she said, and Robb looked like he had been slapped. Regret came over Arya almost immediately, but too stubborn to walk her words back, she grabbed her cloak and all but ran out the door, Nymeria on her heels.

“Arya, get back here!” Rhaenys made to follow the younger girl, but Robb shook his head.

“Let her go,” he said, defeated. “If anyone can get through to Jon, it’s Arya. The guards know to keep an eye on her.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. The meal would not have been appetizing under the best of circumstances, little more than broth and boiled peas, but with Arya’s sudden departure, it tasted more like sand. Rhaenys pushed peas around her plate in some sort of abstract design, her stomach too knotted to entertain the thought of eating.

Bran cleared his throat awkwardly. “Might I be excused?” he asked politely. “Jojen said he had lots of stories of the Wall that even Old Nan doesn’t know.” The Reed siblings, Bran’s ever faithful companions, had accompanied them to the Wall. Rhaenys found Meera to be a practical sort of girl, with a clever sense of humor, and though Jojen was an odd sort, Bran seemed to like him.

“Go ahead,” said Robb. Out of the three of them, Bran was the only one who had managed to clear his plate.

Hodor was fetched by a guard, and Rhaenys helped settle Bran into the basket on his back. The wheelchair had had to be left in Winterfell, as it would have been useless on the icy stones of Castle Black, and so Bran got around on Hodor or on Dancer. He didn’t seem to mind as much anymore, though Rhaenys knew he hated the stares that followed him.

“Stay warm tonight,” she advised him, and after bidding them all goodnight, Bran left.

The only sound left was the whistling of the wind beyond the walls of the room. Robb had pushed his food aside, finding the depths of his mug of ale more interesting. Grey Wind, sensing his master’s unhappiness, moved away from his place by the fire to settle at Robb’s feet.

“Arya didn’t mean it,” said Rhaenys quietly, breaking the silence at last.

Robb took a long swig of ale and grimaced. “I know she didn’t. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t have a point. I’m not Father. I keep trying to emulate what I think Father would do, but it just keeps coming out wrong.”

“You are not your Father,” she agreed, “but that doesn’t mean you have to try to be more like him. You make for a wonderful king and brother just as you are.”

He gave her a wry smile. “You give me too much credit, considering I’ve managed to anger both Arya and Jon.”

“Arya has always been willful, but she’ll come around. And Jon –” Rhaenys paused, unsure. She hardly knew Jon Snow, couldn’t say how he would deal with the news of his parentage. “Jon Snow has a lot to process, but he is still your brother.”

“He’s your brother too.”

She winced. “It’s not the same.” This was not the first time they had had this conversation.

“You share a father.”

“Blood isn’t everything. And our father – Rhaegar Targaryen made many mistakes. I don’t think he makes for great common ground.”

“Rhaenys –”

“Let’s not talk about my father,” she pleaded. “I have spent far more time thinking about him in these past months than I would ever like.”

“Alright,” said Robb, but his tone said this would not be the last time they spoke of this. “What about the Others then?”

She huffed. “You heard my thoughts about them. I’m not saying there’s nothing going on beyond the Wall, but the Others? Really Robb?”

“They existed once,” he reminded her. “The South may have forgotten, but the North remembers.”

“Yes, yes, winter is coming,” she said impatiently. “Call me a skeptical southroner, but I just can’t accept at face value the existence of mythical monsters.”

“We will talk to the Night’s Watch and the wildlings tomorrow,” said Robb. “Even if it isn’t the Others, we need to know what’s happening. This many wildlings near the border is making the lords nervous.”

That, Rhaenys could agree with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just one more chapter after this, which should be posted within the next few days.
> 
> This fic's edit can be found on my tumblr [here](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/182258313126/blood-of-the-covenant-water-of-the-womb-a) if you're interested.
> 
> Next up: wildlings and wights and daddy issues, oh my!


	2. mortui vivos docent – the dead teach the living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you remember him?” Jon’s voice was quiet, almost sad.
> 
> Did she remember him? It was hard to say what was real memory and what was an amalgamation of stories and imagination. Had his eyes truly been the shade of violet she remembered? Had he really played with her and little Balerion, or was that merely born out of a child’s wishful thinking?
> 
> “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I think I do. I have this image of him singing to me before bed, but I have no way of knowing if it’s real or not. He was a good father, I think.”
> 
> Until he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically just [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a5d28f6e47f3f8d48c31a4d43d1ff07d/tumblr_inline_pkz1bdjYjV1ujheqb_1280.jpg) John Mulaney quote. Plus some bonus Tormund and ice zombies.
> 
> Enjoy!

_ii. mortui vivos docent – the dead teach the living_

They saw Arya the following morning, and though she refused to share much about Jon, she did give Robb a sheepish apology. He ruffled her hair and told her there was nothing to forgive.

“You should talk to Jon,” Arya told him. “Tell him he’s being stupid. He’s our brother, no matter what.”

“Jon deserves some space to think.”

“Arya’s right,” said Rhaenys. “You’re going to need to talk to Jon anyway, best get it done soon so we can deal with the wildlings.” Perhaps it was a bit harsh to phrase it that way, but she wasn't wrong. If the King in the North and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch weren't on speaking terms, there was no way negotiations would go successfully.

Robb pursed his lips but nodded. “Alright. You should go speak to the Night’s Watch then, see what they can tell you about the Others.”

“The Others?” Arya perked up. “What’s this about the Others?”

“Nothing,” said Rhaenys, crossing her arms. “Just some stories told by men hallucinating from the cold.”

“The Others are real,” Bran chimed in, his thin face drawn tight with worry. “They’re coming, and so is the Long Winter.”

Rhaenys sighed. Bloody Northerners. “Old Nan has some wonderful stories, but that’s all they are, Bran, stories,” she said gently.

“This isn’t a story from Old Nan,” he insisted.

Robb frowned. “Where did you hear about them then?”

Bran opened his mouth, then shut it, shaking his head. Rhaenys exchanged a look with Robb. Bran had been acting odd as of late, but with the exception of the Reed siblings, he refused to speak about it to anyone.

“Don’t worry about the Others just yet,” Robb told his siblings. “There's a perfectly good chance there's another explanation for this.” To Rhaenys, he said, “You should take Theon with you when you go talk to the Night’s Watch. He knows how to talk to soldiers.”

“I know how to talk to soldiers,” Rhaenys protested.

Robb looked as though he was trying not to laugh. “You tend to scare them,” he said, and though Rhaenys would never admit it, he had a point. Lords, she knew how to sweet-talk or strong-arm into agreeing with her, and the smallfolk were easy to talk to. Soldiers though, had either rocks for heads, or condescended to her, ignoring her title for her gender. Her patience did not do well to being tested so much, and more than once, she had lost her temper at some low-level bannerman.

“I’ll take Theon,” she said grudgingly.

“Try to keep an open mind,” he advised her before they went their separate ways, pitching his voice low so that Arya and Bran wouldn’t overhear. “I know you don’t believe Jon about the Others, and even I’m not sure what to believe, but there’s more to what is happening than meets the eye.”

“I’ll keep my doubts to myself,” she said. “But it’s going to take the dead walking before my eyes to change my mind.”

“This isn’t exactly something I want to be right about, trust me,” said Robb with a laugh, and it felt almost absurd that they were arguing over the existence of creatures from old wives’ tales.

“Good luck with Jon,” said Rhaenys, squeezing his hand. He caught his lips in his for one last kiss before drawing away.

Rhaenys found Theon trudging back from Mole’s Town, still partly hungover. She tossed him a skin of ice water and told him to sober up without much sympathy. At least Theon agreed with her that the Others were a myth, though that might have had more to do with his dislike of Jon Snow than genuine conviction.

They spoke to Dolorous Edd first, who confirmed Jon Snow’s account of the attack on the Fist of the First Men, albeit with some embellishments. Though the man seemed to enjoy exaggerating the misery of everything, his description of the dead men walking had no trace of humor. Every man that they spoke to reiterated that same seriousness, and though not everyone agreed on whether the steward Samwell Tarly had in fact killed an Other with a dragonglass dagger, they all swore to having seen the wights.

“There must a logical explanation to all of this,” tried Rhaenys. The cold had gotten too much for her, and she and Theon had returned to the King’s Tower to warm up by the fire. “Mayhaps the men were not truly dead, merely possessed by some disease that makes men lose their wits.”

Theon shrugged. “I don’t know, everyone seemed fairly convinced that the men that attacked them were dead. That isn’t a conclusion most people jump to.”

Robb had told her to keep an open mind, and though Rhaenys was trying, all of her rejected the idea of magic. Her father had believed in prophecies, her grandfather had believed himself immune to wildfire, and both had gotten themselves killed. Magic was nothing more than madness.

Someone knocked on the door, and Rhaenys called for them to enter. It was Olyvar, Robb’s ever-loyal squire, his pale cheeks flaming red from the cold.

“Your grace.” Olyvar bowed. “His grace the king sent me to tell you that he would be accompanying Jon Snow on a short trip to the weirwood grove beyond the Wall with his guard. They should be back by sundown.”

Rhaenys frowned. Robb followed the Old Gods, yes, but not to the point of folly. “This is hardly the place for prayer. Where is he now?”

“He just left,” said Olyvar apologetically.

“If he gets himself killed by wildlings trying to pray to his gods, I will never let him hear the end of it,” huffed Theon once she had dismissed Olyvar. “Especially if it means I lost a chance to battle wildlings.”

Rhaenys resisted the urge to smack Theon. It was not a new urge. “If wildlings killed the king, you would have plenty of opportunities to kill them. But Robb isn’t foolish, I doubt he went past the Wall just to pray at a heart tree.” She set her untouched mug of bitter ale aside and stood back up. “I’m going to go find Arya and Bran.” She felt uneasy.

She found Arya with Dacey Mormont, helping the older woman clean her armor. Ever since returning to Winterfell, Arya had been stuck to the side of either Dacey or Brienne of Tarth, learning the warrior’s arts from the two women. This often included menial tasks like cleaning, which Arya performed with the most enthusiasm Rhaenys had ever seen displayed by someone mucking out a stable.

Here, she got waylaid by a fight breaking out between one of the Umber men and one of the Night’s Watch wildling prisoners. Dacey and Theon pulled the men apart, and in the absence of any other authority at Castle Black at the moment, Rhaenys had them both tossed in ice cells for a few hours to cool off. By the time that was taken care of, the Lord Steward of the Night’s Watch needed her to discuss grain supplies, and after that, Greatjon Umber came to complain about the treatment of his bannerman.

“Lord Umber,” said Rhaenys through gritted teeth, “I must remind you once more that the Night’s Watch is independent of the Northern crown, and as such, I cannot have your men instigating fights with a prisoner under their authority. If you’d like, take it up with Lord Snow when –”

The loud creaking of chains and gears interrupted her, and Rhaenys turned to see the gate be slowly lifted open. Robb, mounted on his horse, passed through first, followed by one of his guard. As he got closer, Rhaenys noticed dried blood matted at his temple.

“Lord Umber, gather the rest of the men and bring them through the tunnel,” he commanded. “No need to get them armored, but there is something they ought to see.” His tone was grave, and the Greatjon wasted no time in barking at one of his men to gather the rest. Robb extended a gloved hand towards Rhaenys. “Climb on, you need to see this.”

Rhaenys hoisted herself up on the horse behind Robb, wrapping her arms around his middle. “Robb, what is this?” she hissed, low so that the rest wouldn’t hear. “First you disappear on a trip to the weirwoods beyond the Wall without warning me, and now you show up with blood on your brow.”

He touched his brow and frowned, as though he had not realized he had been bleeding. “You won’t believe me if I tell you,” he said, and that was when the dread truly began to coil in Rhaenys’s stomach.

Robb nudged his horse back towards the tunnels, and she tightened her grip on him. The tunnels were lit with a few torches, but the dark was oppressive and made the passage appear vaster than it was. The horse’s hooves crunched on snow, ice, and on occasion, on something that cracked with a sharper sound. Rhaenys tried not to dwell on it. The Wall was far thicker than she had expected, and though its walls muffled the wind, it was somehow even colder than outside.

Rhaenys had to blink away tears when they came out the other side at last, the brightness of the setting sun a shock after the dark of the tunnel. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the rest of the men mounted outside – Jon Snow, several members of the Night’s Watch, and Robb’s guard. Grey Wind was there too, hackles raised as he snarled at something. No, not something, someone. There was someone in the snow, thrashing against their bindings.

“Robb, what…” Her voice trailed away. She knew what the creature was.

Rhaenys had seen her fair share of fresh corpses during the war in the south, but this was nothing like them. It was closer to the corpses of men that were left hanging from towers as a warning, rotted flesh stretching down where its nose had once been. The cold had mangled its hands to black, twisted stumps that scrabbled against the snow, searching for some sort of grip. It was missing a leg, she noticed, torn off at the knee, only jagged clumps of flesh left behind. Grey Wind or Ghost’s doing, if she had to guess.

The wight lifted its head and its eyes stared straight back at her, their color the same cold, burning blue as distant stars. Rhaenys reached for Robb’s hand and gripped it tight enough to hurt.

Behind them, the rest of the Northerners gathered in silence, nobody daring to speak even a curse. Even Theon was scared speechless, his face gone white with terror. Greatjon Umber seemed to be muttering a prayer. Arya had a death grip on Nymeria’s fur, her reckless sort of bravery replaced by the same fear of any other girl of three-and-ten when faced with a dead man walking.

Jon Snow spoke. “When a person dies beyond the Wall, they no longer stay dead. The Others are returned, and with them, they have brought old magic, magic that raises the dead. The wights may move, but they do not speak, they do not fear, they do not live.” One of his rangers passed him a torch. “Cut off their arms and they will still continue to fight. The only way to truly destroy a wight is fire.” He extended the torch. The creature caught fire as though it were soaked in oil, and in seconds, there was nothing left to see but the flames.

Rhaenys looked away and tried not to be sick.

Robb turned the horse to face the gathered men. “The Others are marching south. These are not people, who may be reasoned with. They understand naught but death and war. The war between the living and the dead.” Behind the authority in Robb’s voice hid a bone-deep exhaustion.

…

“Hold still,” Rhaenys chastised, wiping away a clump of blood that had dried in Robb’s curls.

“It’s just a scrape,” he muttered, but complied when Rhaenys moved his head to get a better angle. They were back in their temporary chambers, the fire crackling cheerfully behind her.

“Hush and let me take care of you.” She flicked his nose. Robb caught her hand and turned it around, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“I should have told you what Jon and I were doing,” he said. “I am sorry for that, I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t,” she agreed. She wiped a damp cloth across his brow and Robb winced. “Next time at least leave orders with the men to behave themselves. I swear, it felt like I was dealing with children.”

He frowned. “Do I need to talk to them? You’re their queen, they are sworn to obey you.”

Rhaenys waved his concerns away. “It’s fine, I'm just complaining. Everyone is just on edge here. We have wildlings, the Night’s Watch, and Northern bannermen in close quarters, there are bound to be tensions.”

“It’s not going to get easier,” said Robb quietly. “All three peoples will need to find a way to work together if we are to stop the Others.”

“Right. The Others.” There was no way Rhaenys could keep denying their existence, not after what she had seen. She hated having to admit her mistakes, but she knew when it was time to swallow her pride. “Well, you were right. Magic is out there, and I should have believed Jon.”

“As much as I enjoy being told that I’m right, I really do wish you had won this one.” Robb ran a hand through his hair. “Rhaenys, I – this isn’t a scenario I was ever prepared for. I know how to fight men because I know how men think. But that thing, that wight – Grey Wind tore off its leg and it just kept coming at us, as if it hadn’t even noticed. It took six battle-tested men to tie up a single dead man that had been buried in snow and ice for months. And the Others are supposed to be even worse, like nothing we could ever imagine.”

“There’s also an enormous wall between us and them, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Robb frowned. “Jon says the wildlings believe the Horn of Joramun could bring down the Wall.”

“The Horn of who?”

“It’s a mythical horn from the stories. They say it is still out there.” A good part of Rhaenys wanted to argue against the existence of such an object, but she clearly was not the best at determining what was myth and what was not. “Mance Rayder was looking for it, but Jon doesn’t believe he ever found it.”

“So either it doesn’t exist, or the Others have it.” Robb blanched. “But if the Others had it, wouldn’t the Wall have fallen already?”

He threw his hands up helplessly. “Maybe? I don’t know how the Others think, I don’t know what their strategy is meant to be, other than to kill as many of us as they can.”

Rhaenys tossed the cloth to the side. Head wounds bled a lot, but this one was not much more than a shallow scrape. She doubted he would even scar. “Think back to the stories. In them, what did the Others want?”

“To kill indiscriminately. To bring on eternal winter.”

She nodded, pensive. Everyone had a motivation, even the Others. “So they’re conquerors. They want the continent to be theirs, to do with what they will. For that they need an army of unspeakable size. And for _that,_ they need us. Well, our bodies at least.”

Robb saw where she was headed. “The wildlings.”

“If we leave them behind the Wall, they’re dead. They’re all wights in the making.”

“Jon thinks they should be allowed to pass through the Wall. Give them the Gift to settle on.”

Rhaenys laughed humorlessly. “The lords will love that.”

He groaned. “Oh, I’m dead. If the Others don’t kill me, one of my own lords will, because some wildling boy was caught making eyes at a highborn girl, and it will all be my fault. Please tell me you see another option.”

“None that wouldn’t make us monsters.”

Robb pinched the bridge of his nose. “So we do what Jon says. The Gift is part of the Night’s Watch, he doesn’t even need my permission to let them through. I can’t imagine the wildlings will care much for the boundaries with the North.”

She chewed her lip absently. “There is another option. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Just tell me.”

“The Watch could transfer ownership of the Gift back to the North. The wildlings would become Northerners.”

Robb blinked. “Love, are you actively trying to get me killed?”

“I’m serious,” she protested. “It’s good land, and they’ve let it lay fallow for too long. It would take time, but between the wildlings and our own men, it could become good farmland. But more importantly, this would put the wildlings under our jurisdiction. In exchange for our protection, they swear to uphold the laws of the North.”

He shook his head. “It’s not as easy as just having them swear an oath, an oath I don’t even know if they would concede to. They’re different people, with different customs. Wildlings and Northerners have a long and bloody past that we can’t just fix by letting them in.”

Rhaenys took a seat beside him on the bed, legs tucked beneath her. “So did Dorne and the Targaryens. Dorne killed my namesake, the Young Dragon killed thousands of Dornish banners, and yet Mariah Martell’s marriage brought the two lands together bloodlessly. It’s not easy, but it can be done.”

“Remind me, how many Blackfyre Rebellions were there?”

“That’s different. For one, you’re a far better king than Aegon the Unworthy. And I’m not saying it would be easy, but it’s the only solution I can think of.”

Robb ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll think about it. Maybe there’s something else, another option.” He fell back onto the bed, pulling her with him so that her head lay atop his heart. “Gods, how is it that the war in the south was somehow easier than this.”

“Don’t tell me you miss fighting the Lannisters,” she said, and Robb snorted, the sound reverberating through his chest.

“Not at all, but at least they couldn’t reanimate the dead.” Rhaenys shivered. The mindless, hating eyes of the wight would be burned into her mind until she died.

“The North defeated the Others once before, we can do it again.” She wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to convince.

His grip on her tightened. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll be alright.”

They lay there quietly for a while, the silence only broken by the crackling of the fire and the distant whistling of the winter wind. Robb was warm and solid beside her, his even breathing as familiar as her own. For all the impossible things the future held, in this room there was only them and now.

But the bubble had to burst at some point. “You and Jon seemed to have talked things out,” she said, because Jon Snow’s invisible presence could not be ignored.

“We talked,” said Robb. “Jon’s, well, he’s angry. About a lot of things.”

“Understandable.”

"And I get why Father did it, but he should have told Jon the truth."

"Sometimes it's easier to keep living a lie than to speak a painful truth."

"He never told anybody. Only Howland Reed knew, and that was because he had been there. Father never even told Mother."

Catelyn Stark had lived and died believing her husband had bedded a woman shortly after their own wedding, had lived with the indignity of her husband's bastard within her keep for many years, and yet it seemed that Ned Stark had never once broken his vows. Which was worse, Rhaenys wondered, dishonesty or disloyalty? But that was really no sort of question to ask, not when Ned Stark had only ever wanted to keep his family safe.

"He wanted to protect her. He wanted to protect you, and Jon, and all your siblings. I'm not saying it was right to keep the truth from absolutely everyone, but I can understand where he was coming from."

"It's just odd, realizing you never truly knew your father." Robb seemed to realize what he had said before the words even finished leaving his mouth. "Gods, I'm sorry, that was probably really insensitive of me -"

"Relax, Robb, I get what you meant." She had never really known Rhaegar, but sometimes she wasn't sure if she truly wished to. "You and Jon though, you two are good?"

"Always. Jon's a Stark and my brother, regardless of who his father was or what name he holds.” The bone-deep conviction in his voice made her smile. Before he was a king, even before he was a husband, Robb was a brother. “He asked about you.”

Rhaenys twisted one of the laces of his shirt around her finger. “Well, I’m sure he’s curious about the woman his brother married.”

She didn’t have to see his face to know Robb had a suitably unimpressed expression. “He asked about you as a _sister,_ not as a good-sister.”

“Arya is his sister. I am merely the woman who shares his father. Blood isn’t everything.”

“No, but it’s something.” Robb propped himself up on one arm to look at her properly. “I’m not saying you two ought to be best of friends, but he’s likely one of the few people who might understand about Rhaegar.”

“Our father left my mother for his,” she reminded him. “And I don’t blame him for it, but we’re going to have different views on the past.”

“Maybe not as different as you’d expect.” She shrugged, still unconvinced. “Just – try to talk to him before we leave. You’re two of my favorite people in the world, I’d love it if the two of you could reach at least some sort of an understanding.”

She grinned, a teasing look in her eye. “I’m one of your favorite people in the world, huh.”

Robb leaned over and kissed her, hard enough to dispel any drifting thoughts in her head. “Yeah,” he murmured, pulling away. “Yeah, you are.”

Rhaenys carded her fingers through his curls, stopping to rest her hand just above his heart. “I love you. And I’ll think about it alright? I just – well, it’s hard. And it’s so much easier to ignore the past than to go through it again.”

“I know, love. But you can’t ignore the past forever.”

…

The wildlings – no, the free folk, Rhaenys reminded herself – had made camp just beyond the tree line on the other side of the Wall. Jon Snow had sent the woman they called Val to find the free folk that had regrouped after the assault on the Wall had failed. A man by the eyebrow-raising name of Tormund Giantsbane had appointed himself the unofficial leader after the death of Mance Rayder, and it was him the Night’s Watch and the Northerners went to meet, in the small confines of a tent with enough smoke to make Rhaenys’s eyes water. Still, it was far warmer within that outside among the whipping winds.

“Behold, Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice,” said Val, with no small amount of amusement in her voice. The woman of the free folk could be considered a princess by the standards of the people south of the Wall, but among her own people, it was her unyielding character that had won her their respect. “Also known as Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall. Did I miss any titles?”

Tormund, a broad man who clearly enjoyed his meat and mead, chuckled. “Speaker of Gods and Father of Hosts, m’dear, but I’m not one to hold ‘t against you.” His gaze slid over to where Jon Snow stood and darkened. “Lord Crow, you have some bloody gall to summon me after what you’ve done.”

Jon didn’t flinch. “I come bringing peace terms. With me are Robb Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen, King and Queen in the North and the Trident.” Unlike Val, he skipped the rest of their titles, which Rhaenys probably thought best. For all that the Night’s Watch and the North had the upper hand in the negotiations, these talks would be done on the terms of the free folk or not at all.

Tormund snorted. “You Starks might call that kingdom o’ yours the North, but the true north lies here, far beyond the Wall, and no man can claim to rule her.”

“We did not come here to debate the semantics of a name,” said Robb in a neutral tone. “Our people share a common enemy, one that must be defeated.”

“You southroners didn’t much seem to care about that when you slaughtered my people upon the Wall,” growled Tormund Giantsbane. Beside them, Grey Wind opened his mouth in a silent snarl, revealing fangs white as snow. Robb laid a hand on his shoulders to calm him.

“It was your people’s choice to attack the Wall,” Robb reminded him. “The Night’s Watch was merely doing their sworn duty.”

Tormund Giantsbane threw an empty drinking horn to the side, where it disappeared among the tent flaps. “Their gods-be-damned duty killed my son,” he roared. Rhaenys laid a hand on Robb’s arm. The muscle beneath was tense, but he did not move. “We coulda taken the Wall, but you craven southroners don’t know how to fight like men. Were I a lesser man, Jon Snow, I would hang guest right and slay you for the turncloak you are.”

“Oh, calm yourself, Giantsbane,” snapped Val. “We mourn with you, but I did not bring you across half the damned north just so you could ruin any chance we have of peace.”

“If you wish for your people’s safety, Tormund Giantsbane, I suggest you at least listen,” said Rhaenys, crossing her arms. “Insult us all you’d like, hate us if you must, but the Others do not distinguish between Northerners and free folk, they see only bodies for their army. You must choose between your pride and your people’s survival.”

Tormund’s gaze slid over to her, as if he were noticing her presence for the first time. He harrumphed. “You speak boldly for a girl a quarter my size.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Call me girl again and you won’t be a man for much longer,” she said mildly. Beside her, Robb seemed torn between the need to defend her and the knowledge that she had to be seen holding her own.

Tormund guffawed, amused. “And here I thought southron women were all delicate flowers.”

“Met many southron women have you, Tormund?” asked Val drily.

Tormund grinned, but Jon Snow spoke before the other man had a chance. “We did not come here to discuss the women Tormund may or may not have met.” Robb coughed awkwardly.

“Alright then crow, what have you got to offer us?” Tormund crossed his arms over his large stomach.

“There is mostly uninhabited land just south of the Wall,” said Jon. “The Gift, we call it. There is land to farm, uninhabited keeps fallen into disrepair. Some of the free folk can move there, others can take the uninhabited castles along the Wall to help defend it.”

“But,” said Robb, “every free man and woman who crosses the Wall will be required to pledge fealty to the North. They would be subject to the same laws, the same rights as any other Northern citizen.”

“Pah!” exclaimed Tormund. “Become a kneeler? My ancestors would never forgive me.”

“Your ancestors aren’t here,” said Rhaenys. “And the last Night’s King was brought down by the free folk and the North working together, was he not? If our two people do not work together, we will all perish, and there will be nothing left to fight over.”

“Aye, we must work together, but why must my people give up our freedom for your ridiculous southron customs?”

“So what, you would like land to live, peace with the North despite centuries of enmity, the protection of our banners, and all that in exchange for what, your friendship?” Rhaenys arched an eyebrow. “In the so-called south, we don't call that a compromise.”

Tormund spat. “I will not sacrifice my people’s pride for some southron kneelers.”

"Pride will not save our people," said Val, voice low.

"Whose side are you on, Val?" growled Tormund. 

Val narrowed her eyes. "Do not presume to question my loyalties, Giantsbane. I am a free woman and proud of it, but our people are dying. We cannot expect to win this war on our own."

“We are willing to negotiate," Robb told Tormund, "but if you wish to live in the North, you will have to abide by the laws of the North.”

Tormund threw yet another drinking horn. Grey Wind growled. Rhaenys sighed.

…

The afternoon passed them by, lost among Tormund’s bellowing and grumbling. Every time it seemed an accord was close to being reached, another past insult was unearthed and rehashed, and blame had to be given to the free folk, or the North, or the Night’s Watch. The sun’s rays had long since disappeared behind the dark tree line when Tormund Giantsbane at long last relented.

The free folk would be allowed to cross the Wall and in exchange, they would bend the knee. Metaphorically, at least. Both Val and Tormund had scoffed at the idea of kneeling before a lord, and it was hardly an important enough point to risk the entire talks on. The free folk would retain some measure of self-governance, with the individual tribes and clans keeping most of their original structure. Ownership of the Gift was officially transferred back to the North and as once before, a Targaryen queen was present for the transfer of land, albeit in a very different capacity. Abandoned keeps in the Gift or along the Wall would be given to different clans, with the understanding that they would work to till the land and protect the border from the coming threat.

The agreement was finalized as Tormund shook both Robb and Jon’s hands, hard enough that Rhaenys had to suppress a wince. The union of the free folk and the North would not be an easy one. Nor would it likely be a bloodless one.

But the alternative was far bloodier.

“Now I just have to tell the Greatjon about the agreement,” said Robb, back within the frigid walls of Castle Black. He closed his eyes briefly. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Greatjon Umber, whose lands bordered the Gift, had the most reason to hate the free folk out of all the Northerners. Rhaenys did not envy Robb of his task. “I’d offer to accompany you, but I rather think that would make matters worse,” she said. “Good luck, I guess?” She squeezed his hand.

“Pray for me,” sighed Robb, and trudged off toward the looming King’s Tower.

Rhaenys, suddenly ravenous, headed to the kitchens. It took her a few tries, but finally a sworn brother with surprisingly well-kept raven-dark hair pointed her in the right direction. It was dark and smoky inside, but at least the thick stone walls cut some of the wind. An unpleasant looking man ladled some dark stew into a rough-hewn wooden bowl, shoving it towards her.

“What kind of stew is it?” she asked, as polite as she could.

The cook grunted, possibly in amusement. “Beef,” he said.

Rhaenys got the distinct feeling that whatever meat was in this stew was not beef. She smiled and thanked him anyway. Whatever it was, at least it would be warm.

Turning the corner to leave the kitchens, a figure appeared out of nowhere, running into her and almost knocking over the stew.

Rhaenys bit back a swear. “Lord Snow,” she said, nodding her head in greeting.

“My apologies, your grace,” said Jon, flustered. His brow furrowed. “What are you doing out here alone?”

She gestured to her bowl. “Getting a bite to eat.”

Jon frowned. “It can be dangerous for a woman here,” he said.

“I can be dangerous too.”

His gaze fell away from hers, staring at that familiar point everyone’s eyes always froze upon. Rhaenys knew what she looked like, hair pulled back to reveal the jagged white scar carved down the side of her face. She was used to it by now, used to the way no one could quite meet her eyes anymore.

“You can ask about it,” she said.

Jon looked away abruptly. “Apologies, your grace, I should not have –”

“Roose Bolton gave it to me,” she interrupted. “Before I killed him myself. I’m sure you’ve heard the story.” Who hadn’t by now, heard of how a Northern house had broken sacred guest right and been torn down where they stood? “So you needn’t worry about me around your men.” She inclined her head. “Good night, Lord Snow.” She made to leave.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

She blinked. “There’s really no need to apologize again.”

“Not about that.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry about what happened, with our mothers. Your – our – father never should have left your mother like that.”

Rhaenys tasted copper. When she had even bitten her tongue, she was not sure. “You’re not – it’s not your fault. It isn’t even your mother’s fault. Rhaegar made his choice. Everyone else paid for it.”

“When I was young, I used to think the stories of men going to war for their lady loves were so romantic.” Jon looked away. “Then I grew up, and realized how awful that really was, to sentence others to die in battle for the sake of a woman. And now, knowing what our father did…” He trailed off, a hard look in his eyes.

“Our father – I have had almost twenty years to hate Rhaegar Targaryen,” she said, picking her words with care. “You have only known him as your father for a few days. I might not be the best person to speak to about this.”

This was a terrible place to have this conversation, in a cramped hallway with the cook close enough to listen in, her bowl of stew cooling rapidly in her hands, but her legs would not move.

“You’re the only person I can speak to,” said Jon hoarsely. “You’re the only one who might come close to understanding.”

“When I was younger, I used to wish I had been born a Sand rather than a Targaryen.” Why she was saying this, Rhaenys was not sure. But her mouth kept moving. “It must sound ungrateful to you. But I saw the freedom my bastard cousins had and compared to the restrictions King Robert had put on me, it seemed preferable. Bastard or trueborn, the Targaryen name is not an easy one to bear.”

Jon almost laughed at that. “I used to hate all the stares I got for my birth. The only stain on the honorable Ned Stark’s reputation. Now that I know he was not truly my father, I wish it had all been real. If I must be a bastard, I’d rather be Ned Stark’s over a dead prince’s.”

She bit her lip. “Rhaegar - Father was not an evil man. It is easy to hate an evil man. It is harder to hate a man who genuinely thought he was doing the right thing.” The words hurt to say, her tongue tripping over them, but she had to get them out. “My uncle Doran said Father was a dreamer. He read myths, looking for the grains of truth lost among the fantastical, searched for the real prophecies among the nonsense. Doran said he was obsessed with prophecy.”

For all that she tried to hate Rhaegar, for all that she blamed him for all that could be blamed, he had only been a man. 

“And you think my mother had something to do with that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He’s dead now, it’s not like we could ask him.”

Between the two of them there was a veritable army of corpses. Rhaegar, Elia, Lyanna, Aegon, Ned, Oberyn, the list of names went on and on. For all the blood in their veins the two of them shared, there was even more encrusted upon their histories. Death begot death after all.

“Do you remember him?” Jon’s voice was quiet, almost sad.

Did she remember him? It was hard to say what was real memory and what was an amalgamation of stories and imagination. Had his eyes truly been the shade of violet she remembered? Had he really played with her and little Balerion, or was that merely born out of a child’s wishful thinking?

“I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I think I do. I have this image of him singing to me before bed, but I have no way of knowing if it’s real or not. He was a good father, I think.”

Until he wasn’t.

Jon looked away, eyes hard. “I guess we’ll never know the truth of it.”

How different would their lives have been if Rhaegar had lived? If he had slain Robert Baratheon upon the Trident, had been crowned king of the realm. Rhaenys would have been raised with all the privileges of a royal princess, though Queen in the North she would have never become. But Jon? A royal bastard could be a dangerous thing.

Mother would be queen. Little Aegon would be heir. And they would both be alive.

Mayhaps it was best not to dwell on such a world.

A black brother brushed by, the narrow hallway hardly wide enough for two people. Rhaenys’s stew had long gone cold, and this was hardly the place to linger.

“I ought to head back to my chambers,” she said with a measure of reluctance. “It’s getting late, and I’d rather not be out in the wind after dark.”

“There is an underground passage to the King’s Tower that is marginally warmer than outside,” said Jon. “The wormwalks, we call them. I can take you there if you’d like.”

“Anything to stay out of that damned weather,” she told him, more fervent than usual.

He laughed. “When I first arrived at the Wall, I thought I would never be warm again.”

“And now?”

They began walking back through the kitchen, Jon taking the lead. “Now, I can’t say I’ve so much gotten used to it as accepted my fate.”

“How you Northerners can even stand this cold is beyond me. If it weren’t for Winterfell’s heated walls, I would have frozen to death long ago.”

The wormwalk was little more than a glorified tunnel, dark and dank, but even here Rhaenys could hear the whistling of the distant wind, and the protection of the dirt walls was appreciated. The ceiling was low, and Jon had to duck to avoid hitting his head on a support beam.

“Do you like it at Winterfell?”

The question surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. Rhaenys had been Robb’s wife for two years now, had resided in the North for half of that, but it felt longer. Some days it was near impossible to remember being anything other than queen. Dorne’s blistering heat and endless sand dunes were all but a distant memory.

“I do,” she said. “And not just because it’s the warmest castle this side of the Neck. Behind all the bluster and pride, Northerners are good people.”

“And Robb? You two are, ah, good?” Jon rubbed the back of his neck, words trailing off awkwardly.

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking just to be polite or out of some belated desire to act like a protective brother?”

He flushed. “I overstepped, my apologies.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I just – well, I haven’t had a brother in quite a long time.”

It still hurt to think about Aegon. Aegon, with those round, rosy cheeks, that giggle she remembered even now. Aegon, who loved pureed apples but hated her little black cat. Aegon, who might have been the best king Westeros had ever seen, had he ever made it past his second birthday.

Jon looked away. How odd it must be, to gain and lose a brother in a single fell swoop. “I don’t mean to try and take Aegon’s place or anything, I just – I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” said Rhaenys forcefully. They were at the base of the King’s Tower now, the staircase up to her chambers to her back. “Stop apologizing for how you were born, for our father’s actions, for Tywin Lannister’s actions. Father is gone, Aegon is gone, they’re all gone. We are the last two Targaryens left in Westeros. That has to count for something.”

Just two days before, she had wanted nothing to do with Jon Snow. But family had a way of sneaking up on someone.

“There was another one,” Jon said quietly. “Maester Aemon. He was brother to Aegon the Unlikely. He served as maester here before I sent him to the Citadel. I got word of his passing a sennight ago.”

Something twisted in Rhaenys’s stomach. She had never even known of his existence. “I should have liked to meet him.”

“He once told me that a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.” A small smile echoed on his lips. “Terribly ironic, in retrospect.”

“We have an aunt in Essos. Mayhaps one day we shall meet her.”

“The last three Targaryens.”

“A bastard and two girls. How the once mighty house has fallen.”

Jon snorted. “You are Queen in the North and the Trident, I’d hardly call that nothing.”

That was true. “And you are Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. And they say our aunt Daenerys has dragons. So mayhaps House Targaryen is not as gone as Robert Baratheon or Tywin Lannister might have wished.”

“I am still a bastard.” And bastards had no name to call their own.

“You have a claim to the Iron Throne, you know,” remarked Rhaenys. Her tone was light, but her words were not. “Bastard or no, you are the last male Targaryen.”

“No,” he said, without pause. “I have sworn myself to the Night’s Watch, and there is far too much to accomplish here to ever abandon the Wall.”

She would not admit it, but part of her relaxed upon hearing his emphatic rejection of the throne. “Good,” she said. “Robb loves you, but if he got it in his head to go to war for your crown, it would be disastrous for the North and the Riverlands.”

Jon didn’t seem to take offense to her words. “You have a claim as well. And trueborn, your claim is far better than mine. Why did you never press it?”

For far too many reasons to list, but Rhaenys went with the simplest. “The Iron Throne only ever brought pain and suffering to my family. No, I am content with the crown I have. Let the Lannisters and Tyrells fight themselves bloody for the South.”

They had reached the iron-bound oak door that lead to the guest chambers. Rhaenys motioned with her head, inviting Jon inside.

He shook his head. “I can’t, I have duties calling me.” He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it further. “But this was – I’m glad we had a chance to speak properly, Queen Rhaenys.”

“None of that, please. You are my brother, there is no need for titles.”

Brother. Saying it out loud felt odd.

“Rhaenys, then.”

“I’m not – Robb and Arya and all of them, they’re your siblings, regardless of blood. And the two of us might share blood, but we have still just met." She swallowed. "But I have not had a brother since Aegon died, and I don’t wish us to be strangers.”

All her blood family was either dead or far away. Jon Snow might not look anything like her, might be the bastard son of her father’s lover, but their shared blood could not be denied.

“We are the last two Targaryens in Westeros,” said Jon, echoing her earlier words. “I may not care for our house, may never forgive our father, but you are my sister.”

Perhaps that was enough of a foundation to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you guys liked it! I may be revisiting this verse in the future, but even if I don't, I'll probably be writing some more Robb x Rhaenys at some point, they're my favorite crack-but-in-a-serious-way ship. Check out my [tumblr](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/) for more ASOIAF nonsense, I have a couple other Robb x Rhaenys related things there.
> 
> And thanks to everyone for reading!


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